


the night is darker now (and the wind blows stronger)

by openended



Series: Advent Calendar 2012 [6]
Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fires, Snow, Walking, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's trusting that even he will take a night off in honor of Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the night is darker now (and the wind blows stronger)

**Author's Note:**

> For Georgie!

Helen wraps her arms around herself and dips her head against the wind. She walks through the snowy, abandoned street, conscious of her surroundings and that she should most definitely not be out here alone. She tucks her chin into her scarf to breathe slightly warmer air. Snow whirls around her, muffling her footsteps. A gas lamp flickers as she passes and she looks over her shoulder, wishing that she’d given in to James’ insistence that he walk her home. At the time, the half-mile walk back to her home hadn’t seem like too terrible an idea. She wanted the fresh air, and most of London is inside thanks to the holiday evening. It hadn’t begun to snow more than a flurry until she was too far to turn back.

The air seems to grow colder as she turns to take a shortcut. Her gun is a friendly, comforting weight in her coat pocket against her leg. She forgoes what meager warmth her arms are providing and shoves her hands in her pockets, unladylike but practical. She can draw better this way. There’s a knife strapped to her thigh, but with all of her layers it’s almost useless. Wind whips across her cheeks, blowing stray tendrils of blonde hair into her eyes. She frowns into her scarf; the street seems too bright, lamplight reflecting off the snow in warm almost-daylight. The back of her neck bristles, and she considers running but her footing against the slick cobblestones is unsteady as it is.

A flash of orange light briefly brightens the narrow street. Helen turns, gun drawn and aimed before she’s fully focused.

“You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” she counters, her arm steady.

“A man can’t wish his fiancée a Merry Christmas?” John steps toward her, slowly, arms open.

“The engagement’s off, John,” she says, “you know this.” He comes uncomfortably close and she digs her heels in to her shoes, willing herself not to take a step back. “Stop.”

To his credit, he does. The gun doesn’t waver.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me? If I recall, that didn’t work out so well the last time.” He tilts his head into the pool of light from a nearby lamp. The scar, still shiny, contorts as he grins.

Her shoulder is beginning to grow tired, but she doesn’t dare drop her arm. She’s fast, but as close as John is, he’s faster. “Why are you here?”

He shrugs. “It’s Christmas Eve. Helen, I mean you no harm.”

She trusts him. She can’t explain why, perhaps a sense of hope that even a man so depraved as John would take a night off for Christmas, and she lowers her arm. Despite freezing fingers, she holds on to the gun, leaving it out for easy access should her trust be misplaced.

“That’s better. Shall we?” he gestures forward, in the direction she had been walking.

Helen inhales deeply and nods. “Alright.” She doesn’t turn until he’s beside her, trusting him enough to lower her weapon but not enough to show him her back.

They walk in silence back to her father’s house; she’s staying there while cleaning up his estate after his disappearance (she refuses to think of it as his death). She hasn’t seen John since that night in the Sanctuary, when he pinned her against the wall and she reached for a gun that wasn’t there. She hasn’t gone unarmed since. The street feels warmer with John next to her, brighter, and though she refuses to put her gun away, she remembers why she once loved him with her entire being.

She rekindles the library’s fire once they arrive, the few servants remaining long in bed for the night, and John hangs on the dark edges of the room as she shuffles coals around. She stands up straight, the fire roaring again, and steps back, colliding with his chest. Her breath catches in her throat and her eyes dart to the gun on the mantle.

But John’s arms are warm, not restraining, and she leans into him. She closes her eyes and tries to pretend that the last years have not happened; that John is not another name for Jack, that he has not gone mad, and that their engagement is not painful history. He brushes her hair aside and presses his lips to her shoulder. Her lips part and she turns her head, exposing the bare skin of her neck.

John takes the invitation. His hand trails down her arm to her hip. Though separated by layers of dress, he can feel her skin tremble against his touch. Her breath catches in her throat when he kisses behind her ear. “Helen,” he says, voice gravelly.

She opens her eyes and turns, conscious of how his hands slide to her back, pulling her closer. “John,” she says, resting her hands on his arms. A small part of her is listing off every reason why this is an awfully terrible idea, but most of her misses him. She rises up on her toes slightly and kisses him. 

John brings his hands up to tangle in her loose curls as they kiss. He feels her relax against him, though not entirely. He knows he’ll never get her to fully drop her guard, not tonight or ever again. The fire pops, reminding them of where they are.

Helen steps away first, far enough to breathe but not breaking the circle of his. She drops her hand to catch his and waits for him to lead; he knows where her bedroom is.

He pretends not to notice that she palms the gun from the mantle, nor that she slides it underneath her pillow.

* * *

When Helen wakes in the morning, he’s gone. His half of the bed is cold. She draws the blanket around her shoulders, shivering as she steps barefoot over the floor to restoke the fire. She’s already overslept and she’s due back at the Sanctuary in an hour for their Christmas celebration. John will not be back.

She looks outside at the sunlight sparkling on the snow coating the rooftops of London. She thinks she’ll hire a driver, this time.


End file.
